Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (20 page)

Zoe looked up to find an apologetic-looking Earl standing at the corner.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we really need to get back in service.” He pointed to his wristwatch.

Zoe climbed to her feet and dusted off the seat of her pants.

Pete stood at the same time. “Mind dropping me off at my car?”

She pictured his SUV parked behind Rodeo’s. Would McBirney’s car still be there? Probably. With that county detective and his men crawling all over it. Or maybe they’d have towed it away by now.

As if she’d conjured him up by merely thinking of him, Wayne Baronick appeared behind Earl. “Ah. I see the rescue squad is still here. Any news on our victim?”

Victim. Patient. Bastard. Zoe mused on their different perspectives.

“They’re still working on him,” Pete said.

“Is he gonna make it?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” Zoe said.

“Doesn’t look good, though,” Earl added.

Baronick pursed his lips in what must have been an effort to appear concerned. “Well, I drove his wife here. She’s out in the waiting room.” He turned to Pete. “Do you want to talk to her?”

Pete gave him a wide-eyed innocent look and a shrug. “Why should I? I have nothing to do with this case. She’s all yours, Wayne.” He clapped him on the shoulder and then turned to face Zoe and then Earl. “Shall we go?”

Relieved to get the hell out of there, Zoe scooped up her hat and grabbed the gurney’s framework. Earl stepped up to push from the other end. They steered it past room eleven and had almost reached the exit to the ambulance bay when Baronick called out for them to hold up.

Zoe, Pete, and Earl all turned to see the detective and a doctor, who had been in and out of McBirney’s room, heading their way.

“Tell them, Doc,” Baronick said.

The grave-faced young man in the blood-splotched lab coat clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’m afraid there wasn’t anything we could do. Mr. McBirney did not survive his injuries.”

NINETEEN

Zoe let the men sit in the front of the ambulance for the drive to Vance Township. Riding in the back, staring at the empty cot, was the closest she could get to being alone. And being alone was what she needed right now.

Jerry McBirney was dead.

She should feel something. Joy. Relief. Vindication.

Grief?

Instead, she felt apprehensive. The man she’d loathed and feared for over a decade was gone. In theory, he couldn’t hurt her anymore. So why was she about to burst into a cold sweat at any moment? Why did she sense McBirney’s circle of influence over her life was about to tighten into a noose?

Zoe shivered and leaned over to flip the heater on. There was no happy medium where the ambulance’s patient compartment furnace was concerned. You either roasted or froze.

“Are you all right?” Pete called from the front.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Closing her eyes, Zoe spent the rest of the trip oblivious to the conversation in the cab, muffled by the roar of the heater and the clang of the valve wrench against the oxygen tank.

The ambulance jolted to a stop and jarred Zoe from a near-sleep state.

Pete opened the side door, allowing a blast of bitter cold into the patient compartment. He gave her an inquisitive stare. “You sure you’re all right?” 

Zoe clicked off the heater and stepped out into night air sharp enough to slice through her coat and gloves. “I’m terrific.”

“Like hell you are.” He took her by the arm and led her away from the ambulance before leaning in close to her ear. “Baronick is going to want to question you. Don’t say anything to him. You hear me?”

Baronick? The detective? “Why would he want to talk to me?”

Pete lowered his face to her level so she had no choice but to meet his unyielding gaze.

Zoe tried to swallow, but it stuck in her throat. The conversation she’d had with Pete earlier came rushing back. Her history with McBirney. His threats. Her attack on him. She was going to be a suspect in his murder. Because she’d confided in Pete. Not Pete her friend. Pete the cop.

“You’re going to tell Baronick what I told you?”

“Not if I don’t have to. And neither are you.”

She stared into his face wanting to believe he wouldn’t betray her trust. 

“I didn’t kill Jerry McBirney. You know that, don’t you?” she whispered.

Pete touched a gloved thumb to Zoe’s lips and cupped her face in his hand. His expression softened. “Yeah. I know that.” For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her again. Instead, he turned and strode to his SUV, parked where he’d left it behind Rodeo’s.

Zoe headed back to Medic Three and climbed into the passenger seat Pete had vacated. She leaned forward a bit for a better view of what was now a crime scene. Yellow police tape marked the area. A Monongahela County police vehicle kept vigil.  But McBirney’s car was gone.

She sat back and closed her eyes.

Earl rested a hand on her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not now.” Zoe drew a deep breath and picked up the mic. “Control this is Medic Three. We’re in service, returning to the station.”

After two hours of restless sleep, Pete rolled out of bed. He showered, shaved, and dressed, all the while replaying yesterday’s events in his mind.

Marcy fingered her husband for Ted Bassi’s murder. Yet instead of being the break in the case Pete had longed for, it only created countless new headaches. McBirney hadn’t had a chance to refute his wife’s accusations. How convenient.

For Marcy.

Zoe’s tale only reinforced what a monster McBirney was. Motive wasn’t the issue. Hell, it amazed Pete that someone hadn’t offed the man years ago.

No. The issue wasn’t why. It was who.

Pete unlocked the police station’s front door and disengaged the alarm. He checked the clock. Seven-fifteen. Forty-five minutes before he was officially on duty.

He turned up the thermostat, flipped on the light to his office, and glared at the empty coffee pot. Damn, he missed Sylvia. No matter how early he arrived at the department, she’d already be there with a fresh pot brewing.

Maybe with McBirney gone, Pete could get the remaining supervisors to give Sylvia her job back. If she’d take it. Pete would have to work on her.

He popped the lid on the Maxwell House can and peered inside. Empty.

Son of a bitch.

Pete flung the container into the trash can and opened the storage cabinet door. Nothing.

The one and only grocery in Dillard had closed five years ago. He could venture back out into the frigid cold and drive to Phillipsburg. Or…

He stomped into the front office—Sylvia’s office—and picked up the mic.

“Thirty-one, this is Vance base.”

“This is thirty-one,” crackled Kevin’s response.

“What’s your twenty?”

“I’m on Covered Bridge Lane approaching Route 15.”

Damn. That was clear on the other side of the township from Phillipsburg. “Before you come back to the station, swing by the Food Mart and pick up a can of coffee.”

“Copy that, Chief,” Kevin said, but the jingling bells indicating someone had entered through the front door partially drowned him out.

Pete turned to find Wayne Baronick grinning at him, his hands behind his back. “Out of coffee, Chief? That’s a fate worse than death.” The detective revealed what he’d been hiding—two cups of Starbucks.

On another day, Pete might have thrown the brew in Baronick’s face. Especially considering how pleased the sanctimonious county detective had been last night as he claimed jurisdiction over Pete’s crime scene. But Pete needed caffeine. Now. He snatched one of the cups and took a whiff of the aromatic steam.

“You’re welcome,” Baronick said. “Now, can we talk?”

“About what?” Pete headed for his office, gulping the coffee.

Baronick followed. “Jerry McBirney’s homicide.”

Pete shook his head. “I’m not on that case. ‘Vance Township doesn’t have the means to properly handle a homicide investigation.’ Isn’t that what you said last night?”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want your assistance. Besides, I thought you’d be interested in hearing what my guys learned while interviewing the bartender at Rodeo’s last night.”

Pete settled into his chair and motioned to one across the desk from him.

Baronick made a show of flipping through his notepad. “McBirney arrived sometime after two in the afternoon, not in a very talkative mood. He started with beer. About an hour, hour and a half later, he made a phone call on his cell. The bartender didn’t hear the conversation, but said McBirney seemed pleased with himself afterwards and ordered another beer.”

“He made a call on his cell? Did you find the phone?”

“No. It wasn’t on McBirney, and it wasn’t anywhere in the car. I’m working on a subpoena for the records.”

“So was McBirney there the whole evening?”

Baronick shook his head. “The bartender said he received a call a little before four. Apparently McBirney didn’t like what the caller told him because he switched from beer to whiskey. After a couple of shots, he made another call. The bartender said the joint was getting busy with folks getting off work so he didn’t notice how long he was on the phone, but didn’t think it was long. After a couple more shots, McBirney paid up and left around four-thirty.”

Pete sipped his coffee. Had McBirney met up with his attacker in the parking lot on his way out? Or was that what the killer wanted them to believe?

“We should have some answers as soon as I get my hands on those phone records.”

“That’s not likely to happen until early next week,” Pete said. “If you’re lucky.”

“I know. In the meantime, I could use your input. You know the people involved. Some of them very well. The bereaved widow McBirney for one.” Baronick waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Pete nearly reconsidered his decision not to make the detective wear the coffee.

He must have sensed Pete’s thoughts. “Calm down, Pete. Try not to be so pigheaded about this. We both know you’re a better cop than I’ll ever hope to be. But local departments simply don’t have the budget to effectively handle major crimes. That’s just the way it is.”

“Stop blowing smoke up my ass, Wayne.”

“Your ex-wife wasn’t very forthcoming last night. As soon as she got word her husband was dead, she clammed up and demanded a lawyer.”

Good for Marcy, Pete thought.

“Don’t suppose you know how she got that shiner.” The detective sipped his coffee.

“McBirney slugged her.”

Baronick choked. He fumbled in his pockets until he found a handkerchief, which he coughed into. “You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

He raised his eyebrows.

Pete knew he was waiting for more, but didn’t feel like making it easy on him.

“Okay. How do you know?” Baronick wiped his mouth with the handkerchief before stuffing it into his pocket.

“She mentioned it yesterday when she came in to tell me she thought her husband killed Ted Bassi.”

Baronick’s eyes grew wide. He set his coffee on the floor and dug his notebook from his jacket. “Maybe you should just tell me everything you know.”

As much fun as it was toying with the detective, Pete decided to get it over with. He told Baronick about Marcy’s failing marriage, her meetings with Ted Bassi, and McBirney’s suspicions.

Baronick didn’t say anything for several moments after Pete finished his report. He tapped his pen against his pursed lips and glowered at his notes.

Pete sipped his coffee.

“I don’t suppose,” Baronick said at last, “that you happened to Mirandize Mrs. McBirney?”

“Didn’t have to. I wasn’t interrogating her. She came in of her own volition to revoke her previous statement that she was home the night Ted Bassi was killed.”

“Still. If she gets a good attorney, he’ll have any statement incriminating her thrown out. Damn it, Pete. You should have read her her rights.”

Pete jiggled the Starbucks cup. Empty. Shit.

“Who else had reason to kill McBirney?” Baronick said.

Who didn’t? Pete wasn’t about to mention Zoe’s late night confession. That left Sylvia and Rose and all the disgruntled township residents McBirney had pissed off during his term in office. And before. “The man had a lot of enemies.”

Baronick’s eyes narrowed as he studied Pete. “Including you, Chief.”

Pete’s hand tightened on the empty cup and it crumpled. “What exactly are you suggesting, Detective?”

Baronick scribbled something in his notebook and then closed it and slid it into his jacket pocket. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just stating a fact. Marcy McBirney was a battered wife. You’re her ex-husband. Not only did our homicide victim steal your wife years ago, but then he abuses her. Don’t suppose you have an alibi for last evening between 4:30 and 6:30, do you?”

Pete wanted to snap an easy answer at the jackass. But the fact was he’d been working on the Jaeger. In his basement.

Alone.

The bells on the door announced someone had entered the station. “Chief?” Kevin called. “I’ve got your coffee.”

Pete glared at Baronick. “I think it’s time you leave.”

The detective stood. “You’re absolutely right. I have a lot of work to do.” He extended a hand to Pete. “Thanks, Chief. You’ve been very helpful.”

Pete held Baronick’s gaze. He didn’t look down at the hand and sure didn’t intend on shaking it.

Kevin appeared in the doorway with a plastic Food Mart bag in his hand. “Hey, Detective,” he said.

The game of who-blinks-first went on for several long, silent moments. Pete won.

Baronick cleared his throat and turned. He patted Kevin’s shoulder as he passed, mumbling a greeting to him.

“What was that all about?” Kevin asked when the bells indicated the detective had left.

“Nothing.” Pete tossed the worse-for-wear Starbucks cup in the trash. “Make me a pot of coffee.”

Zoe’s sleep would have been disrupted by two more calls overnight—had she slept. But both times the pager tones went off, she’d been wide awake, staring at the underside of the bunk above her. By eight o’clock, Friday’s daylight shift had shown up. She mumbled goodbyes and ventured into the morning sun.

The sky was crystalline blue and the air so cold that the hairs in her nose froze. She tugged her parka’s collar higher, trying to protect her face.

Her truck groaned a bit, but the motor turned over after only minor wavering. She set the heater and the fan on high and flexed her fingers inside her gloves to encourage blood flow.

Jerry McBirney was dead.

All night, that’s as far as her brain would venture. But with the light of day burning into the shadows of her mind, she had to consider some hard questions.

Who killed him? What had Logan found on the computer yesterday?

Where the hell had Logan gone?

Zoe shifted into drive and hit the gas. Before she let her mind take off on some ridiculous tangent, she needed the answers to those last two questions. As long as Logan wasn’t involved, she didn’t care much about the first one.

Except maybe to shake that person’s hand.

Five minutes later, she wheeled onto Rose’s street and parked in front of her house. As Zoe pounded on the door, she prayed a bleary-eyed Logan would answer.

Instead, a pale, gaunt Rose let her in.

“Have you heard from Logan?” Rose said.

“No. I’d hoped he was here.”

“I haven’t seen him since he left for your place yesterday after the funeral.” Rose’s eyes were red and moist, her lips raw and cracked.

Sylvia sat on the couch in the living room. Dark circles shadowed her bloodshot eyes.  “Good morning, dear,” she said to Zoe, her voice strained and weak.

Zoe leaned down to give her a hug and then turned back to Rose. “He left my house around two. Said a friend needed his help with something.”

Rose nodded and started pacing. “He called me and said the same thing. Told me he didn’t know what time he’d be home. But when he wasn’t back by nine, I started calling his cell phone. It keeps going to voicemail.” She threw her hands up. “I spent half the night driving around looking for him, but I don’t know where else he could be. I wish Ted were here.” Her voice cracked, and she sank into one of the living room chairs.

Zoe knelt at her feet and placed a hand on her knee. “Did you call around to his friends?”

“Of course I did. I called everyone I could think of.” Rose brushed a tear from her cheek with a trembling hand.

Zoe hated what she was thinking. McBirney was dead. Logan was missing.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Have you called the cops?”

“I tried Pete last night,” Sylvia said. “Damned voicemail. I left a message, but he hasn’t called back. Rose refuses to call 9-1-1.”

“I can’t,” Rose wailed. “I’m afraid. What if…you know…there really is something wrong.” She burst into tears. “I can’t take it, Zoe. I just buried Ted. I can’t lose my boy, too.”

Sylvia hauled herself up from the couch and moved to Rose’s side. Her eyes glistened as she rested a hand on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder.

Zoe couldn’t breathe. She had to tell them. Damn Logan. If only he were home, safe and sound. And innocent. Then it wouldn’t be so hard to say the words.

“Jerry McBirney was killed last night.”

Zoe noticed Sylvia’s fingers tighten on Rose’s shoulder. Rose made a sound that was half gasp, half retch. She stared at the carpet. The refrigerator’s soft hum in the next room sounded more like a tractor in the midst of the silence.

Sylvia spoke first with a hushed, “Hallelujah.” She released her grip on Rose, stood up tall, and stalked into the kitchen. A chair squeaked as she lowered into it. After another silent pause, she slammed her hand on the table.

Zoe flinched.

“How?” Rose said.

“It looked like stab wounds. Punctured a lung. He bled out.”

Rose chewed her already raw lip. A parade of emotions marched across her face. Finally, she nodded. “Good.”

“Good, my ass,” came Sylvia’s response from the kitchen. “The son of a bitch deserved a long, suffering death for what he did to my boy.” She turned in the chair and met Zoe’s eye. “And to you.”

Being stabbed and stuffed in a car trunk on the coldest night of the year, left to either bleed to death or freeze to death sounded pretty torturous to Zoe, but she didn’t attempt to change Sylvia’s mind. 

“Anyhow, that’s why Pete didn’t answer his phone last night. He drove the ambulance so Earl and I could both work on McBirney.”

The kitchen chair clattered to the floor as Sylvia staggered to her feet and lumbered into the living room. “You mean you had to work on him?”

“Yeah.”

Rose swore under her breath and buried her face in her hands.

Sylvia stared at her. “I hope you didn’t try too hard to save the bastard.”

“Sylvia,” Rose snapped.

“I did everything I could,” Zoe said. “Everything I’d have done for anyone else.” She felt like she should tack on an apology.

Sylvia shook her head. Then sighed. “Well, yes, of course, you would have to. That’s the kind of person you are. Thank heavens he died anyway.” She reached for the phone. “I’m going to try Pete again.”

The kitchen door slammed, and Sylvia spun toward it.

Rose leapt to her feet. “Logan?”

Allison appeared in the doorway. Like everyone else in the Bassi family, she looked as though she’d put in a long sleepless night. “No. It’s me. Isn’t Logan here?” Even with her face scrubbed free of its usual heavy make-up, she hardly resembled the little girl Zoe knew and loved.

Sylvia took the girl by her shoulders. “Do you have any idea where he is? Who he might be with?”

Allison’s eyes darted from her grandmother to her mother and then to Zoe. “No. I figured he’d be here. I—I don’t know.” Her face took on a greenish pall. “Oh, my God. Something’s wrong. Where is he?”

“That’s it.” Sylvia released her granddaughter and reached for the phone. “I’m calling Pete. And if he doesn’t answer, we’re calling 9-1-1.”